


Scout, It's Whats For Dinner...

by daoinhe



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Horror, Major Character Injury, Violence, non consensual cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:50:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daoinhe/pseuds/daoinhe
Summary: Spy is curious about the Fresh Game Sniper provides for mealtimes.  Sometimes being curious leads to seeing things you can't unsee...





	Scout, It's Whats For Dinner...

Spy brushed the grime from his suit sleeve and cursed under his breath. He’d followed Sniper into the sewer system nearly two hours ago, the tall lanky mercenary had disappeared not long after, and he’d been wandering around down here ever since, trying to find him again. The cobwebs were what bothered him the most. You couldn’t see them until you walked into them, and then you were left brushing at the sticky residue and hoping you didn’t encounter the webs occupant. He sighed and resisted the urge to wipe the muck off his Italian leather loafers. It wouldn’t do any good to clean them off, but the muck and grit on them offended his fastidious nature. 

This had started off as a lark, an adventure. He’d been wondering for some time now where Sniper procured the “fresh game” he served whenever it was his turn to cook for the team, and when he’d seen Sniper duck into the tunnels, he’d had to follow. He was thinking that perhaps the tunnels exited into the desert somewhere, and that Sniper was hunting before dinner time, but now he was starting to have his doubts. There didn’t seem to be any fresh breeze down here to indicate egress to the outside, plus, the level of debris on the tunnel floor suggested that even flash flooding, so common in this desert waste, did not clear out the tunnels. 

Spy tilted his head to the side. The click click of boot heels on concrete was approaching from further down the tunnels. Spy darted into a corner of the tunnel and waited patiently for Sniper to approach. When the ringing of boot heels was louder, indicating that he was just around the corner, Spy cloaked himself. He watched as Sniper strode down the tunnel toward him, seeming perfectly at home in this underground Abaddon. Sniper carried a package wrapped in brown paper under his arm, and as he walked, he whistled a jaunty tune softly under his breath. He paused suddenly and looked around, his eyes sliding over Spy’s cloaked form. The corners of his mouth turned up a bit, into his trademark smirk. Whistling louder, he started walking again, boot heels tapping as he walked away. 

Spy released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and his shoulders sagged slightly as his cloak ran out. He didn’t want to think about what Sniper would do if he caught him following. Spy sighed. He’d thought for a moment that the dirty bushman had detected him. Stealthily, he walked over to where Sniper had been standing and crouched down. His sharp eyes noted the trail of small ruby droplets leading into the darkness. Spy touched a gloved finger to one lightly, then lifting his hand, inspected the smear on his fingertips. Blood. Fresh blood. 

Spy frowned. What was Sniper doing down here? The only creatures he’d seen in the tunnels had been rats. Surely Sniper wasn’t hunting rats and feeding them to the team, was he? With a deep, contemplative sigh, Spy tried to count all the times he’d eaten Sniper’s cooking over the past year. He turned his eyes to the blood trail and kept walking. 

The tunnels twisted and turned, the detritus on the floor grew deeper. Spy picked his way along carefully to keep his shoes from being a total ruin. The light bulbs strung along the ceiling were becoming fewer and fewer and spaced further and further apart. Shadows danced every time he accidentally brushed against one. Luckily, there were only a few branches off the main tunnel, and he was able to find the blood trail easily every time he lost it.

Eventually, the tunnel opened into a wide, raised platform. Spy climbed the three steps to the platform and looked around. There was a rusted iron door set in the wall, and the blood trail led to it. He walked to the door and placed a hand on it, pushing slightly. The door was solid despite the layers of rust and muck coating it. Spy reached for the door handle and turned it. Locked. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his lockpicks, setting to work before he had time to think this through. 

Finally, the lock gave with a soft snick. Spy turned the handle again, pushing slowly on the door. It soundlessly swung inward a few inches. The door may have looked dilapidated, but someone was obviously making sure the hinges were well oiled. 

The room on the other side of the door was piled high with broken furniture, old machine parts, and pieces of lumber. Spy slid through the narrow pathway that was the only way in. He hissed in a breath as the room opened out into a cleared area. there was a small wheeled cart with an array of scalpels sitting close to a metal framed bed. In the bed was a tall lanky boy, the enemy Scout if Spy had to guess. His head was turned to the side and his eyes were closed, his lashes lay like dark smudges against the emaciated planes of his face. His body was covered by a sheet, the bottom of the sheet was darkened by bright red stains. 

Spy did not want to cross the room to that bed, but his feet seemed to move of their own volition. He stopped at the foot of the bed, eyes quickly taking in the heavy leather restraints wrapped around the too thin figure and the metal cuffs attaching his arms to the headboard of the bed. Spy staggered a bit, off balance by his find, and those dark lashes fluttered. The boy looked up at him blearily. “Please,” he whispered, “please kill me.” 

Spy took a step back, his eyes turning to the blood-soaked sheets, his mind making connections. He did not want to look under that sheet, but he needed to know. Reaching out tentatively, he pulled the sheet back, his eyes widening in horror. The boys’ legs had been flayed, then dissected. The flesh was gone from knee to ankle, only bare bones with stringy scraps of tendon remaining. With the image of that paper wrapped package in the front of his mind, Spy turned aside and vomited.


End file.
